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LuLaRoe Consultants, You Need To CTFD

Let’s get something straight: My love for leggings is deep and it’s real. Leggings have been there for me during the times I have retained more water than the Hoover Dam and in those moments when the thought of button up pants makes me panic. There is nothing like slipping into a pair of yoga pants or leggings after a long day of sucking in my 42-year-old mom abs, I can assure you. In fact, you can practically hear my abdominal muscles scream with relief when I pull on my favorite pair of fleece-lined leggings, and I practically knocked my kid over the other day as my abs came out of my business pants like a sling shot.

For those not in the LuLaKnow, LuLaRoe leggings are all the rage in the mom britches realm these days. In fact, the mere mention of LuLaRoe makes devotees of the brand light up like Christmas trees on steroids. I have friends who squeal and gush on and on about how wonderful their LuLaRoes are as they stare dreamily into space, basking in the warm glow of the softest fabric on the planet wrapped around their cottage cheesed mom thighs. Entire Facebook groups are devoted to the sale of these Leggings From The Maker Himself, and I have never seen so many grown ass women fighting like cats and dogs to own an overpriced mom uniform staple.

I once asked a friend what made LuLaRoe leggings so incredible, and she looked at me straight in the eye and said, “They feel like butter on your legs.” But she didn’t say “butter.” No, she said “buttah” like some ridiculous version of the Coffee Talk Lady. As it turns out, “they feel like buttah” is the most-used description of these leggings and, frankly, if I hear it one more time, I’m going to shove a stick of actual butter in LuLaRoe’s piehole.

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Before you get your LuLaRoe’s in a bind, it goes without saying that I admire the fuck out of a woman who can hustle to make money for her family. Being the host of Pop Up parties, managing inventory that fluctuates, and trying to keep customers happy, all while still trying to make it to preschool on time is no joke, ladies. Believe me, all the respect for trying to put a little green in the bank.

But come on. There has to be a better way than making me fight women on Facebook for a pair of leggings I’ll wear while watching Grey’s Anatomy. Amiright?

While I can appreciate that walking around in leggings that feel like buttah is probably totes amazeballs, the real kick in the pants is LuLaRoe’s sales tactics. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve undoubtedly been added to a private LuLaRoe Facebook group against your will. Consultants add their entire Facebook friend list to their LuLaRoe group and then badger their friends to add more friends with promises of free clothing for the person who adds the most unsuspecting victims to the “party.”

I was added to my 36th LuLaRoe group last week during an “add party” and my inbox was instantly jammed with 50 posts from a perky consultant yelling exciting, motivating statements and overusing exclamation points. Really? This is how we buy clothes now, ladies?

LuLaNoFuckingWay do I have time for this fresh hell nonsense.

Listen, I’m sure the leggings are really comfy. I’m sure angels sing beautiful hymns of praise and glory as you pull those LuLaRoes over your tired mom hips. But, seriously, if they were that amazing, wouldn’t Target carry them? Wouldn’t I be able to buy them on Amazon in the way the good Lord intended — during a Prime and Wine shop-a-thon on my couch?

If you want me to buy your shit, LuLaRoe, make it easy. I jump through enough hoops during the day; don’t make buying leggings into a 12-step process involving a cat fight, Paypal, and an invoice that has to be paid within 13 minutes or my prized one-of-a-kind Buzzard print leggings will be passed on to the next buyer.

Another reason I’ll never know what it’s like to smother my hairy pockmarked thighs into a buttery pair of LuLaRoes is that I have no desire whatsoever to badger my friends or drag them into a high-pressure sales environment. I need my friends because I can’t do carpool without them, and I am not risking pissing them off by adding them to a group where the consultant is trying to convince us that leggings with slices of watermelon all over them are a good thing. Seriously, go home pizza slice leggings, you’re drunk.

I tried to leave a LuLaRoe group three times last week. Three times, people. Forget Trump and his wall. Just station a bunch of LuLaRoe consultants on the border. Ain’t no one getting into the country on their watch, yo.

And for the record: The next person who adds me to a LuLaRoe group is getting a kick to the LuLaButthole, understood?

As if the panicked high-pressure sales and questionable patterns aren’t enough, the price to own a slice of buttery legging goodness is obscene. At nearly $40 a pop, I feel like you are hawking the other infamous Lulu leggings or, at the very least, leggings laced with gold leaf. I work damned hard for my money and, while I wholeheartedly believe that women need to treat themselves on the regular, there’s just too much damn work involved to spend $40 on leggings emblazoned with giant pizza slices.

I don’t have the time to scroll through albums of pictures, add 890 of my closest friends to a group, and beg a consultant to let me buy a pair of elusive plain black LuLaRoes. Fuck that noise. I’m fine with my Target leggings, thank you very much. And Target comes with a coffee bar, so suck it Buttah-cup.

LuLaRoe, your people need to CTFD.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be deleting myself from LuLaRoe group hell again and raising my Jamberried middle finger to their overpriced leggings.